


cling to the familiar

by inc



Category: Best Song Ever - One Direction (Music Video), One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Doppelcest, Frottage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-21 17:00:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inc/pseuds/inc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcel can't help noticing all the ways he's different from Harry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cling to the familiar

**Author's Note:**

> My first 1D fic, all for [Mediaville](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mediaville) because we both like smut so very much. Posted to the doppelganger challenge at [best boys](http://bestboys.livejournal.com/883.html).

The irony is not lost on Marcel when he gets home and there is a girl on their sofa. Well, she’s not really _on_ the sofa. Harry is on the sofa. The girl is on Harry.

It takes Marcel a second to register what he’s seeing. His eyes are still teary – he ran into a few schoolmates during his late walk home and it’s a never a good time when that happens.

Today he’d unknowingly walked up on some of them talking about girls. His reaction to their rather rude conversation must have been clear on his face, because right away they’d started elbowing him too roughly and laughing, calling him _virgin_ like an insult. It’s not the worst they’ve said to him yet, but he really could’ve done without the reminder. Especially when his brother is known for pulling anyone he wants.

From where Marcel’s standing, the girl on Harry’s lap looks just a bit older than him. She has long, dark hair and cat-eye glasses, but. Marcel’s not really watching her. He’s watching his brother.

He knows objectively that Harry’s been with people, but he’s never _seen_ Harry with anyone. He’s never seen that expression on Harry’s face. It’s hard to look away from it, that awed sort of pleasure.

But then Marcel glances down, notices how Harry’s got his hand under her skirt, between her legs, arm flexing with movement. In the silence between the girl’s little moans, Marcel can just barely hear the soft, wet sound of whatever Harry’s doing to her. It makes Marcel feel a sudden flash of something like embarrassment, but deeper, lower down. 

Marcel snaps out of it, gives a quick shake of his head and hurries away, hopefully before Harry and his girl notice him. He heads straight for his room and faceplants onto his bed so awkwardly that his glasses are knocked askew. He doesn’t move to fix them, just exhales shakily into his pillow a few times, probably fogging up the lenses with his breath. And maybe a few tears.

After a few short moments he hears mumbled voices from the kitchen and the front door opening and closing. Then Harry’s coming down the hall, into the room. 

"Hey," Harry says quietly. "Didn't hear you come in."

“Didn’t want to ruin your date,” Marcel says, muffled. 

Harry makes an amused noise as he sits at the edge of bed. “It wasn’t a date.”

The image of the girl straddling Harry’s lap flashes into his mind, of her rolling her hips against his hand, and he briefly wonders what all Harry does on _actual_ dates if that wasn’t one. 

“C’mon and tell me what’s wrong then,” Harry says. His hand is on Marcel’s shoulder now. 

Marcel’s voice is high and wavering when he replies, “What makes you think something is wrong?”

Harry clears his throat. “Well, you, uh. You’ve never been that hard to read, actually,” he says, sounding like he’s trying keep a serious tone. “You’re my brother, anyway. I’ll always be able to tell.”

Marcel heaves a breath. It doesn’t matter if he tells about the teasing or not. Harry’s already tried to help, put his own reputation on the line just to draw negative attention away from Marcel. It doesn’t really make Marcel’s situation any better, though. If anything, it makes people like Harry more.

But that’s fine. Marcel gets it; he likes Harry best too.

“At least turn over for me,” Harry coaxes.

Marcel tries to wipe away the wetness on his cheek and sheepishly flips over.

Harry slips the crooked glasses from his face and Marcel blinks as his eyes adjust, refocusing on Harry’s concerned face. There’s a flush to his skin still.

Harry just looks at him a moment before wrapping him up in a hug. He’s more than used to getting cuddles from Harry by now, but it's still something he doesn't realize he seriously craves until he gets it. He could lie here like this for a while and everything would probably start to seem fine. 

He presses his face to Harry’s shoulder, but then he realizes he can smell the girl’s perfume and it makes his breath hiccup on a sad sigh.

Harry pulls back just enough to look him in the eyes. “Gonna tell me what happened?”

“It’s— it doesn’t matter, it’s always the same thing.” Marcel swallows against the lump in his throat. “I just wish I were more like you, Harry.” 

Harry has this look, like he doesn’t _get_ Marcel but he’s fond of him anyway. His gaze is trailing slowly over Marcel’s face, and he says, “We pretty much are the same. Look at us.”

“No, we’re— “ Marcel starts to say, but then Harry’s fingers are pulling at the buttons of his jumper, undoing them one by one. Marcel goes quiet and watches.

Harry doesn’t say anything either, focused on what he’s doing. Once he’s got the jumper unbuttoned, he starts on the dress shirt underneath. Marcel jolts with surprise.

“Harry, what…?”

“Just let me show you,” is all Harry says, exposing Marcel’s chest and belly one undone button at a time. He has to pull the shirttails from Marcel’s trousers to get at the last few. When he’s finished, he pushes the shirt to either side, leaving Marcel’s torso bare, and then he sits up to pull his own t-shirt off.

“See,” Harry says. He’s moving closer, insinuating himself between Marcel’s legs and then bracing himself over him, looking down between them at their bodies. “We’re made the same.”

Marcel looks too. They are alike in a lot of ways. Same broad shoulders and narrow hips, same smooth skin. But there are differences. 

The way Harry’s holding himself over Marcel is making his arm muscles stand out, the new definition of his abs even more apparent. Marcel’s own body is soft by comparison, younger looking.

Without thinking, Marcel reaches out and touches the rounded muscle of Harry’s bicep, clasping his fingers around it and squeezing. He runs his hand down the length of his arm, feeling the strength there.

Harry’s grinning down at him, but it’s not gloating or anything. He’s just smiling at Marcel like they’re sharing a fantastic secret right then.

Marcel’s hand trails over to one of the tattoos on Harry’s chest. Harry leans into it, like he wants Marcel to press down on it. So Marcel does, lets his thumb drag hard across the ink like he’s trying to smear it.

Harry’s breathing is audible now, almost loud in the otherwise quiet room as Marcel touches at Harry’s tattoos.

“Maybe I should get one,” Marcel finally says, lingering over the heart inked onto Harry’s arm. 

Harry shakes his head, frowning slightly. He’s pulling Marcel’s shirt even further aside. “You’re perfect like this.”

Marcel looks down at himself. “Like this?” he echoes.

Harry nods. “Yeah,” he says quietly, and then his hand is touching down on Marcel’s bare hip and sliding up his side, palm hot.

It’s like a mirroring of Marcel’s exploration a moment ago, except Marcel doesn’t have tattoos or newly-developed muscles. He only has pale, unmarked skin for Harry to run his hands over.

Marcel’s losing the thread of why they’re doing this, but it’s hard to care. It’s – nice. He wants to tell Harry that, but he doesn’t want to break Harry’s concentration. Harry looks so caught up in what he’s doing, watching the path of his hand on Marcel’s body.

It’s then that Marcel realizes the pleasant heat building beneath his skin and in his chest is also settling heavily between his legs. He shifts his hips, praying Harry won’t notice, because then he might stop touching Marcel. And Marcel doesn’t want that because no one ever touches him and now Harry is and Harry’s his favorite.

But when Harry looks him in the eye again, it seems like Harry already knows Marcel’s liking this too much. Marcel licks his lips nervously, ready to apologize, and then Harry kisses him. 

Harry’s _kissing_ him.

Marcel doesn’t know what to do. Harry’s mouth is plush, pressed firmly to his. It’s almost like the little kisses they shared as kids, just clumsy, innocent affection. But it changes quickly, becomes almost more than Marcel can keep up with. The kisses are still soft but definitely not the kind they traded when they were young. 

Harry’s lips are slick, sliding against his in this supple rub as he fits their mouths together. Marcel can _hear_ it, the quiet, wet sound reminding him of Harry and the girl, that moment when Harry’s hand was moving steadily under her skirt, and the dirtiness of that has Marcel’s hands shaking. He has to grasp hard at Harry’s arms to keep his bearings.

When Harry licks at his mouth, Marcel gasps out this quiet breath, and then Harry’s tongue is in him, sliding against Marcel’s. It’s this living heat – the shock of it hits him bodily, a blush rushing over him. He can’t even process it, he just goes from being kissed to being embarrassingly stiff in his trousers in the span of a few seconds. 

He eases Harry away, voice straining on his name. It’s too much, it feels too good too soon.

But Harry’s going back in already, nipping at Marcel’s bottom lip, drawing Marcel’s tongue into his mouth and sucking on it. Marcel makes a wounded sound, but then Harry finally closes the small bit of space between them and brings their bodies together. 

Harry’s hard too. 

It feels good, having Harry solid and warm against him, erection pressed tight against Marcel’s. It makes Marcel fingers dig into Harry’s skin, this need building up fast, a need he doesn’t know what to do with.

He pulls away from Harry’s mouth. “I want to,” he mumbles, his voice breaking. He’s not even sure what he means, he just—wants.

Harry’s nose skims against his. He presses a kiss to Marcel’s cheek. His mouth feels hot, even against Marcel’s flushed skin. “So go ahead,” he says.

“I don’t—. “ He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He shakes his head and buries his face against Harry’s throat. 

Harry pets him, breathing heavily when he whispers, “Don’t think so hard. Just do what feels good.” 

That almost makes it worse, makes Marcel whimper for Harry, overwrought, but then he closes his eyes and tries to obey. Tries not to think. 

He grabs hold of Harry’s hips, fingers spread over the curve of his arse. He holds Harry still and just… thrusts up against Harry, using his brother’s body to wind himself up even more. 

It feels selfish, like all the times he guiltily rubbed off against his sheets before he learned to wank properly. But it feels good, being able to take what he needs without thinking, working on instinct, hips rutting. Even through their pants, it’s – it’s more than enough, the pressure and friction bringing him closer, making him whine and grip harder at Harry’s hips.

He wonders if he’s hurting Harry, shoving against him too hard, but Harry doesn’t seem to mind. He’s rolling his hips down, moving with Marcel, panting little encouragements against his ear.

Weirdly, it’s the thought that he’s going to come that brings him off. It’s all happening so quickly. One moment he’s thinking about how he’s going to come in his pants, rubbing off against his brother, and the next moment he’s doing just that, movements going erratic, hips still roving shakily with each pulse of his orgasm, riding against Harry to make it last that much longer.

He’s still trembling with the aftershocks when Harry starts pulling at the button of Marcel’s fly. Marcel is too stunned and sex-stupid to react at first, letting Harry undo his fly and yank his trousers and pants off.

He wants to curl in on himself once he’s naked, because Harry’s just looking at him, staring down at Marcel’s softening cock all sensitive, ruddy pink and shiny with come. But something in Harry’s expression keeps Marcel from covering himself. 

Harry’s cheeks are red and his eyes are heavy-lidded, dark, still focused on Marcel as he starts unbuttoning his own fly, taking down his jeans and pants. The fact that they’re both naked now doesn’t strike Marcel so much as the fact that Harry’s dick is right there and _big_.

“Harry,” he breathes, just before Harry leans in and kisses him again. 

Marcel huffs out an overexcited breath at the first-time feeling of their bodies pressing together with nothing between, just skin to skin. It puts him a step behind Harry, makes the kiss awkward. He has to turn his head, let Harry mouth at his neck. 

Harry’s dick is nestled beside his now, sliding through Marcel’s come as Harry moves against him.

Marcel says, “You’re kind of—“ and stops there, groaning high in his throat at the feeling of his dick trying to fill out again, too sensitive and slippery against Harry’s skin.

“What?” Harry asks distractedly, biting gently at his jaw.

“Big.”

Harry rears back and they both look between them, seeing Harry’s dick, long and thick, next to Marcel’s. Marcel’s chubbed up still, but he’s only just gotten off. He’s certainly not as big as Harry, and probably wouldn’t be even if he were fully hard. They both watch as Harry starts fucking against Marcel’s belly, gliding easily through the slickness Marcel left there. 

“Yeah, you’re kind of big,” Marcel repeats almost absently, fascinated by the sight.

“That’s because you’ve got me so hard,” Harry murmurs, voice hoarse now. 

Marcel’s still reeling from the words when Harry takes his mouth again. Harry’s being less careful now, making Marcel open up to him, kissing him deep. He’s moving against Marcel like he wants more than a quick rut, making sounds like it hurts him that he can’t have what he really wants right now. 

Harry’s hand moves to Marcel’s arse, groping for a second before his fingers slide even further, into the cleft. 

Harry’s going reckless with his movements, tearing his mouth away from their rough kiss and bowing his head next to Marcel’s as his hips work. 

It’s almost too much again – Marcel’s too sensitized all over, especially his cock, starting to fatten up once more – but it doesn’t even occur to him to ask Harry to stop. It’s part of that big need inside him, he’s still feeling it even though he’s already finished off. He wants whatever Harry will give him.

Harry’s fingers become insistent, the tip of one tight against the hot little place where Marcel would open up to him. He doesn’t try to press in though – just holds there, rolls his hips hard a few more times against Marcel’s and then goes still, moaning through his teeth as he spills hotly onto his brother’s stomach.

Marcel waits until he can see Harry’s face, slack with satiety and glowing with sweat, before he speaks.

“Is it always that good with other people?” he asks, curious, words coming out unsteady.

Harry almost looks surprised when he shakes his head, mouth parted. “No,” he says, voice deep and a little slurred. “It’s really not.”


End file.
